


I'll Never Let You Go

by WritingsOfAHobbit



Series: Thranduil/Reader Stories [18]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingsOfAHobbit/pseuds/WritingsOfAHobbit
Summary: Hi, could you please write an angsty and fluffy Overprotective!Husband!Thrandy x Hurt!Wife!reader based on this imagine from imaginexhobbit: “Imagine thranduil keeping you still, holding you and comforting you, which enables a healer to care for a wound you’ve received outside the castle in mirkwood.” He saves her in the first place? A poisoned arrow? A spider’s bite? She hates healers? The treatment is painful? And he cares for her? Changes dressings himself to make it easier for her? Thanks





	I'll Never Let You Go

You were a seasoned warrior with more than 1,000 years experience, 400 of which were spent leading. You could distinguish between orc alphas and orc omegas just by their footprints. You could singlehandedly take down an army of goblins in a cramped tunnel miles below the surface of the sun-kissed earth. You had even taken down a juvenile firedrake when you were 300 years old, with no more than seven soldiers beside you.

The armour you wore in battle and on patrol was cast from gold, leather, iron, silver and mithril, collected over centuries through gifts and commissions. Your leather breastplate was a gift from your father on your graduation day and the mithril mail worn underneath was commissioned from the dwarves of Erebor by your husband. Your gauntlets were leather based with iron knuckle protectors and combinations of metal guarded your arms. You had a helm made from gold-infused mithril which could buy the small town of Dale on your Eastern borders seven times over.

Therefore it was a mystery that you were not only taken by surprise by one very ugly, very angry spider, but you were grievously wounded by it too. Not wounded in the way that you were now at risk of infection, but wounded in the way that the healers were seriously concerned for your wellbeing.

The spider had dropped on you from above and its rancid, poison-coated fangs had punctured the leather and and found the one spot the mithril didn’t protect, piercing your skin as though it were nothing other than freshly-baked bread.The pain had been instant and you had fallen from your mount with a surprised shout. The spider had fallen with you and you were momentarily crushed under its weight until your guard severed body and head and pulled you out. By then the poison was already cursing through your veins and the area around the bite was on fire.

Your guard had made quick work of packing the wound with poultice and one of them had cradled you carefully on his own mount as several others raced ahead to the palace to alert your husband and the healers.

The community in which you had grown up was frequently subjected to attempted orc raids. On occasion the raids were successful and elves were taken hostage. Part of the infantry training had been how to get through whatever the orcs threw at you, be it starvation, abuse or torture. You applied this training on the race back to palace, fighting to keep your eyes awake and your mind alert. Diverting energy to staying awake would delay the healing, but you couldn’t risk closing your eyes and never opening them again.

Your vision is blurry by the time you reach the gates and your skin feels as though it’s on fire. Your stomach rolls uncomfortably as you’re gently lowered onto a stretcher and hurried towards the healing rooms. Noises seem far too loud and sudden and you wince when someone speaks too closely to you.

The head healer takes over once you’re settled, hurrying all of the males from the room. She and her assistants make quick work of removing your upper armour and exposing your wound to the room. The healer clucks and tuts and dishes out commands as she flutters around the room. A bowl of something warm and sweet smelling is placed next to your head on the bed. A few moments later and the healer is soaking your wound in it.

You don’t realise that it’s you screaming at first. The noise sounds like a high pitched whine to your ears, but it’s most definitely you.

The pain is agonising.

It numbs your body and sets it on fire at the same time. You want to be sick and it’s a miracle that you’re not. Helpers rush to hold you down on the bed as the poison and the antidote rage war inside you.

Although you try you simply cannot hold still for the healer. Each time you flinch the cloth pulls roughly at your wound, making it hurt even more. To her credit the healer doesn’t once raise her voice at you, although it is clear she is quickly becoming stressed.

All at once the hands are removed and a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist. You’re rolled onto your side, your torso now elevated, and your head falls against the chest you have rested on for what could be an eternity.

Thranduil holds you close and tight and he murmurs sweet things in your ear. You can’t hear the words that he says but the warm breath on your ear and the rumble of his chest are enough to keep you calm whilst the healer dresses the wound. Most likely she will make the decision to sew your skin back together, a common practice with shoulder bites.

Your grip on reality is slipping slowly and you’re truly aware of nothing other than your husband’s protective embrace, but you’re grateful when you’re forced to swallow a dark liquid and your grip on reality fails altogether.

~x~

When your eyes find the strength to reopen again you find yourself in your bedroom, wrapped in heavy sheets as candles burn behind the bed curtain. Your wound is on fire and when you try to reach for the drink on the stand you’re left writhing in agony and shouting in pain.

The bed curtain is thrown aside and Thranduil slides onto the bed, gently manipulating you into his lap. He helps you down some of the liquid before he presses kisses to your face. “How do you feel, ninya indis?”

You whine and desperately clutch him close. After some careful manipulation Thranduil is lying beneath you, stroking your hair and whispering soft words as you drift back off into a painless sleep.


End file.
